It’s Not the Middle of Nowhere, But You Can See It From There

In May of 1998, my family and I drove from San Angelo to San Diego, CA so I could read a paper at a conference. At the heart of the essay was a question regarding exactly at historical truth actually is and who controls the distribution of history. At the risk of sounding like a Dairy Queen philosopher, I noted in the essay that in McCarthy’s world history evolves as we uncover and discover and that “Things separate from their stories have no meaning. . . . The story on the other hand can never be lost from its place in the world for it is that place. And that is what was found here. The corridor. The tale. And like all corridos it ultimately told one story only, for there is only one to tell.” Simply put, for McCarthy history is not an event; it is a narrative we construct based on a variety of needs and desires.

On our way home from San Diego, my family took a side trip through southern Arizona and southern New Mexico to visit places mentioned in McCarthy’s various novels. We ate supper and in Yuma (the ferry from Blood Meridian), where the waitresses at Jack and Rosie’s Steakhouse took turns holding our youngest son so we could eat a meal in peace. We turned south in Gila Bend onto highway 85 and traveled through Childs, Ajo, and Sells, Arizona as we made our way to Douglas so we could see where Billy crossed the border and borrowed a half dollar from John Gilchrist. From Douglas, Billy “was all day on the old road . . . to Cloverdale” and so where we. “It’s a good road,” the man at the Visitor Center told us, “if you’ve got a vehicle with some clearance. Just be sure to stay on Geronimo Trail.” Sound advice.

If you choose the road less traveled and decide the Guadalupe Canyon Road sounds fun, the road ends, literally, the man told us and no amount of clearance will get you to Cloverdale from there. The SUV had water, baby bottles, Goldfish, chocolate chip cookies, plenty of gas, and a family of mostly intrepid adventurers. Good thing. If we weren’t in the middle of nowhere, we were pretty darn close.

The drive from Douglas to Cloverdale is about fifty-five miles and, if you are a crow, it’s probably pretty quick. If you are bound to this earth when you travel, though, plan on a half day’s drive. Moving slow. Across roads that resemble images from four-wheel drive commercials where tires bounce across rocky terrain while the passenger looks down at the shear drop off. (Death grip on the door handle optional.)

We have a photo of a road sign near the Slaughter Ranch that says “PRIMITIVE ROAD CAUTION USE AT YOUR OWN RISK THIS SURFACE IS NOT REGULARLY MAINTAINED” with an ominous looking bullet hole after SURFACE.

The sign does not a lie. It’s harsh and brutal land punctuated by rolling hills of grass as you drive into the Whitmire Canyon Wilderness Study Area. You pass Outlaw Mountain and Guadalupe Mountain, and, if you are lucky, a small ranch house still inhabited in the harsh but beautiful landscape. We knew it wasn’t the Parham place, but it certainly could have been. Once you come out on County Road C002 (portions unpaved) and turn south on NM 79/NM 338 (portions still unpaved), there’s not really much left to see in Cloverdale. There’s a building that serves as a kind of hay barn and a sign you can stand near. The Animas Peaks are in the backdrop and the landscape is dotted with working ranches. As you look at them, you wonder why Billy would ever leave.

In some respects, though, this focus on the long, lonesome roads is a bit deceptive. Billy’s adventures are punctuated and, largely, defined by towns, ranches, and settlements. First and foremost of these is La Babicora, the ranch in Mexico owned by William Randolph Hearst. Hearst, an absentee landowner, serves as a pretty clear symbol of the battle between the goals of the Partido Nacionale Revolucionario and foreign capitalists. The ranch is huge, successful, and perfectly situated within the landscape. It also represents the unequal distribution of wealth and power that signal a failed revolution.

Billy’s travels are never quite complete. He finds his father’s horse, but loses his brother. He simply drifts tale to tale, following paths already established and roads already traveled. When he finally returns to American with Boyd’s bones and inters them in the Cloverdale Cemetery south of Cloverdale, he continues floating, drifting with the wind down New Mexico highway 152 through San Lorenzo and the Black Range, headed east toward El Paso, TX. He ends the novel crying, woken by the false sun of a nuclear bomb test, a perfect symbol for the hope and despair of the modern world. We master an integral part of the universe, but in doing so set the stage for possible world annihilation.

When my family and I left for San Diego back in 1998, my oldest son was three and my younger son was about six months old. Our plan to start the trip was to leave at 4 a.m. so the two boys would sleep for a big chunk of the first day. The best laid plans, as they say, often go awry and my older son, about 45 miles west of San Angelo, piped up from his car seat, telling us “This is the longest road I’ve ever been on. It goes forever!” So much for well rested kids. Or parents. Unwittingly, he captures the idea within McCarthy’s text. The roads out west do go on forever and it’s possible to drive for miles and miles without seeing anything but deer and jack rabbits, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

The Crossing, in some respects, offers us the most comprehensive look at a McCarthy character’s thoughts as we travel with Billy from Cloverdale into Mexico. He searches and he finds, but he is never filled. For McCarthy, though, Billy’s emptiness is his own flaw. Billy never recognizes that the world is not just “stone and flower and blood” (143). It’s not the road he travels that gives life meaning. In McCarthy’s world, it is the telling and “Of the telling there is no end” (143). The road goes on forever, as my son might say, and the stones matter, but they matter, in McCarthy’s novel, only insofar as we recount and witness the journey and tell the tale of the stones we step across.

Indiana Wants Me, Lord, And I’m Back Here

I’ve always liked that R. Dean Taylor song “Indiana Wants Me.” Like a lot of songs, though, I’m not sure I’ve ever actually paid attention to the words. That’s a dark song, man. The law is coming and this guy is writing a love song? I’m thinking he should pay more attention to driving and worry about maudlin sentiment later on. (You can remember the song here.)

It might surprise you to know that Indianapolis is different than Hamilton, Canada. Whereas Hamilton, when I was there two weeks ago, was a veritable united nations of languages, dialects, and restaraunts, near as I can tell, Indianapolis has steak houses and Irish Pubs. And everyone speaks English. Or at least everyone I’ve run into so far.

Is there a whiter inner-city in America? (There was a street concert with a white woman and an African American guy singing. The first song I heard was Jimmy Buffet. Really? It’s a black guy outside in the 49 degree temperature singing Buffet? These two were really good by the way. Shout out to her, in particular. Long, soulful voice. He sounded a bit like Keb’ Mo’ when he wanted to.) Was anyone surprised that Indiana went for Romney in a big way? He carried the old white guy vote. (If you were surprised, you might also be shocked to hear California voted for the liberal. And, I have this bridge to sell you.) Based on my walking through town, there seem to be a good bit of those old white guys in town. Maybe it’s just the conventioneers.

Don’t get me wrong. I like Indianapolis (and I have nothing against old white guys, by the way). John Mellencamp is my favorite musician. Axle Rose grew up in Indiana. Larry Bird. Reggie Miller (Yes. I know he’s not white). Corn. I love all those thing.

I was here once already in January of this year in the 19 degree (that’s just stupid cold), snowy weather. Yesterday morning I left home in the warmth (winter in West Texas at 85 degrees) and it is 34 here this morning. The city is clean, well laid out, and the night life is pretty hopping. They have the open air concert, a mall in the middle of town, restaraunts, and I even saw a few incredibly polite bums panhandling. Truly, the heart of America. Heck, they have White River State Park right next to the NCAA Hall of Champions.

And food. It’s not a city filled with variety but what they have is tasty. Walk down Washington and turn to Meridian to find the famous St. Elmo Steak House. I was going to eat there until I saw the prices. The place was packed. Clearly, Indiana folks make good money. (Another feather in their cap.) Standing down on Washington or Maryland and spit any direction and you’ll hit an Irish Pub. That’s not a bad thing. I had the Dublin Chicken at Claddagh’s. Lightly breaded chicken breast with mushroom sauce, mashed potatoes and creamed spinach. If Romney could promise me such meals, I would have voted for him, too. (Try the Dragonfly IPA with the meal.)

For breakfast this week, I’ll head over to Patachou’s for french toast or an omelette. I might not have to eat again the whole day. If I do get hungry, I’ll hop over to the Indianapolis Colts grill for lunch and find a steak for supper.

But, it’s still Indiana, home of the Hoosiers, a nickname that means something like country  bumpkin. While in theory I applaud the willingness to seize the derogatory term and take ownership of the word, I also can’t imagine why a whole state wouldn’t find a different nickname. (It reminds me of the old Oklahoma slogan they put on their license plates: Oklahoma is OK. Hey, way to sell your state! Let’s go to Oklahoma for an OK vacation! Then we’ll head up to Indiana and hang out with the country bumpkins. Good times.) But, then again, this is a state who chose its name by looking around. Hey, there’s indians here. Let’s call our selves Indiana.That extra “a” on the end will pretty the word right up.

Indiana seems stuck in a weird liminal space. They joined the country as a frontier area full of divesity, but they are something like 88% white today. They aren’t truly in the north or the great lakes region but they aren’t in the south either (despite the NASCAR events.) They have major research universities here, a pro football team, a pro baasketball team, and house the NCAA. Indianapolis is the 12th largets city in the country. Yet, they are still hoosiers. It’s still Indiana. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone yell  out–let’s take a road trip to the hoosier state! Maybe it’s just the people I hang out with.

In the meantime, I’ve got to figure out what the guy in that song did to make the cops so mad.

Hitting the Bricks (And Hoping You Don’t Get Mugged)

The only way to understand a city is to hit the bricks. If you have a car, it’s worth driving into some residential areas outside the city center, but if you really want to get a feel for a city, you need to beat feet. In some cities, you might have to take the subway (New York), the El (Chicago), or the Trolley (San Francisco) just to really experience the area. In Seattle it’s worth jumping on the ferry across the sound and taking their public transportation to West Seattle. The goal, of course, isn’t just to feel the city but to walk among the people. Buildings are buildings. Sure Seattle has the Rainier Tower and New York has, well, New York buildings, but when you walk through these two cities it’s not the buildings that create the real difference on the streets. Let’s be honest: people are people (so why should it be, you and I should get along so awfully–sing it with me!) but it’s pretty different walking the streets of Millwaulkee versus the streets of Chicago versus the streets of Baltimore.

But walk we must and that’s what I do (much to the consternation of my wife when I tell her). Miles and miles, circling (or squaring, really) progressivley out from the hotel. Doing so reveals inner city gems. Get off the Inner Harbor in Baltimore and you walk up to Marble Hill and Mt. Vernon. Little corner bars (excellent places to watch a game) and one of the best little liquor stores in America tell us that “The Wire” might have been a great show on cable but Baltimore is more than drug deals gone bad.

But occasionally walking reveals some ugly, scary things about ourselves. Frankly, that tension between who we think we are and who we might become is one reason I love to travel–it forces me out of my comfort zone. If I’m hungry, I have to take a chance. (Don’t, by the way, ever tell a waitress in Atlanta to “suprise me” when she asks what kind of beer you want–note to all waitresses: blueberry is not a beer flavor to a guy with a Texas accent).

You don’t know this (because I don’t have a photo up) but I’m just a middle class white guy from West Texas. Born in the South, I’m pretty comfortable around all kinds of people, but we can never forget that in America, too often, diversity and tolerance means that we eat at a Mexican food place and laugh at a Tyler Perry movie.

And that’s what made my walk last night in Hamilton, Canada so interesting. And disturbing. I’ve walked a lot of cities, including Houston, TX, the most ethnically diverse city west of the Mississippi (although you would never know it if you are there on the weekends. I guess all the diverse people are indoors. Boring downton and I’m not just saying that because I’m from that area) and I’ve rarely been scared. Heck, I’ve walked a few non-American cities and not been scared.

But there I was in Hamilton, Canada last night. After my crack in yesterday’s blog about Canada and _Strange Brew_ I want to reiterate that I have nothing against Canada. I loved Calgary (even though some homeless woman there yelled at me repeatedly asking why I took her shoes–or at least she yelled at someone or some apparition in my general direction).

I hit the bricks last night. I walked, looking for some Canadian food. Evidently, Canadian food is either Chinese, Italian, Mediterranian, Korean, or Japanese (which makes sense–what exactly would Canadian food look like). This is something I should celebrate–diversity, difference, multiple languages crowding the streets–a veritble United Nations outside the hotel.

But I was nervous. Inexplicably. Young adults everywhere. Teen-agers. Young mothers with strollers. I know logically I was in no danger (I hope) but even the teenagers walking the streets worried me. I ate some delicious Indian food at Mahal’s, voted the best Curry in Hamilton one year. I had the Lahori Fish. Yum. I couldn’t understand a word the waitress said but she was friendly. A group of teen age boys came in, rowdy, orderd about  4 cheap items on the menu and talked trash the whole time (I assume–they weren’t speaking English but they laughed a lot).

When I left and tried to walk off my supper (if you go to Mahal’s, split the Lahori fish–they are generous with their portions), I got nervous all over again but I didn’t realize why Hamilton scared me until right before the hotel. I was walking behind two guys, both smoking, and both cussing up a storm. F-this, and GD that, and then when they spoke what I can only assume where equivalent words in Arabic, it hit me. Of all the diversity, with all the groups and clusters of people, they were all divided by ethnicity and language. English speakers here; Indians there; Arabic speakers on the other side. And never the twain shall meet. It seemed so tribal (and I don’t mean tribal in a necessarily negative connotation referencing issues of civility. I mean tribal, in this case, literally.)

My walk last night seemed fraught with a tension lurking right under the surface. This is not, I don’t think, a reflection on Hamilton but a reflection on me and largly irrational. I am a product, for better or worse, of an American culture that values difference but is also strongly insistent on a unified culture (united we stand, divided we fall). We still rally around collective holidays and collectively Americanized events. Doing so suppresses individual cultural differences in favor of the larger collective ideology. We really are a melting pot, blending those things we find most valuable into an American flavor (witness: TexMex food). And it works for us.

As I prepare for the day (ironically drinking Starbucks Arica Katuma coffee in Canada at a Sheraton hotel), I can’t wait for tonight’s walk. I just hope that woman with the stroller isn’t standing on the same corner. I think her baby sneered at me last night.

Not Enough Sugar and Too Much Water

On the hour long ride from the Toronto airport to Hamilton, Canada, we met some talkative, relatively aggressive Canadians returning home who wanted to talk politics. Pleased as I was that 9 hours of sardine time was being topped off in a van with politcal discourse, I will admit that I was surprised at the aggressiveness of the Canadians’ dislike of Obama. (Well, mostly I was surprised at their aggressiveness. I didn’t think they got all that worked up about much more than hockey. And beer.But, it’s also true that my knowledge of Canada is largely shaped by _Strange Brew_. Aye.)

Either way, after the woman told a story about a poor doctor in Arizona whose practice shut down because of Obamacare (good to know Fox News makes it this far north) and the man worried Obama was soft on defense (from a Canadian? I am no war-monger, but I’m a bit tired of my tax dollars–and my neighbors sons and daughters–carrying the rest of the world’s water on defense), the conversation mercifully died and we rode in peace.

Naturally, and perhaps ironically, the only places open to eat when we arrived where loud. But they had cold beer. People might look different all over the world, but the Bar and Grill sure doesn’t. As I fell in bed, exhausted from doing nothing all day, I noted Starbucks coffee in the room. Smile.

Except I can never understand why hotels don’t leave you enough sugar. Why two sugars for two cups of coffee. Do they really think I want to use one sugar and one sweet in low in each cup? Are they trying to save me from myself and save me from too many sweets?

In much the same way, I don’t understand the guilt cards they leave on the towels (9 billion gallons of water are wasted every day washing towels for your 1st world, middle class travelers–you can save the world by hanging up your towel you earth killer). This is the towel you will use after you finish showering with the rain-forest shower head that uses 400 gallons and dumps so much water the bathtub can’t drain. I’ve been swimming in pools with less water. But if I hang my towel up, I’ll save the planet?

At least I’ll have a good cup of coffee. Almost.

Sitting in a Air way Station. Ticket to my destination. La, la

“I’m sitting in the railway station. Got a ticket to my destination.” Sing it with me. Except I’m not in the railway station, but I don’t think DFW rhymes with anything.

I’ve seen _Super Size Me_  (forgive my formatting here–my tablet is being persnickety this afternoon) but I still get chicken nuggets when I fly. These are things I don’t eat on a regular basis. I’m no health nut, but being on a plane seems to bring out the fatalist in me. For all you Hee Haw fans, sing along: “Gloom, despair, and agony on me. Deep dark depression, escessive misery.”

Airports, I think (and unfortunately I travel enough to make this claim) have quickly become embletic of the American middle class. (In much the same way that a bus station might be said to depict America’s lower class travelers. How many of us have traveled via Greyhound lately? Where are most bus stations located in a city?)

We are mobile and that is good, but we want our mobility cheap and with all the conveniences of home. Restaraunts, convenience stores, haircuts, shoe shines. We leave one strip mall and land in another. Along the way, we sit and try to carve out a small piece of privacy in the noise around us, hoping we didn’t miss our flight.

And I think this is part of what really bothers me about flying. I’m 9 hours today without a moments peace. Noise every where. Announcements, people talking about why they are leaving their husband (maybe I just attract those people), men talking tough about business and business partners, a woman sighing as she’s working a Soduko, and the debate. On every tv in the airport. Really? For why? Is DFW trying to encourage political discourse before we board? Red aisle, blue aisle? Will the republicans in the audienc admit air traffic controllers should be regulated? Will the democrats realize de-regulation made it possible for them to afford the ticket?

I really love Simon and Garfunkel. “Homeward Bound” is a great song, but I’m partial to “The Boxer.” I even like the Mumford and Sons remake. Sitting on the plane, humming about railway stations, almost allows me my own private space. Now if someone would just turn off the dang tvs.

Road Weary and Travel Worn Already

And so it begins. Perhaps not as dramatic as the battle for middle earth, but a chore nonetheless. We begin the day in San Angelo, one of the best airports in the world to go through a checkpoint. Normally. My after-market insoles earned my tennis shoes an extra swabbing down and I was chosen for a “random check!” The people here are friendly enough that she made it sound about like I had won the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes.

I realized this morning, after my earlier post, what I dislike about traveling today–it’s too much like going to the dentist (or the proctologist when you get randomly chosen for extra screening. I’ve had colonoscopies that were less traumatic than a pat down I once got leaving Orlando, Florida).

Our quest for safety, for constant vigilance, has put us all on the defensive. Admittedly, I’m not the most outgoing and friendly guy, but we are thrust into a locked down environment that begins with an immediate suspicion of the 150 or so people with whom we might end up stranded on the tarmac for 6 hours with no air or working toilets. (We might also fall 30,000 feet with them, but the tarmac stranding is much worse.)

I’m not sure technology has made it better. We ascend the stairs here, cell phones out, head phones on, and do everything we can to avoid meaningful eye contact. Heaven forbid I might have to carry on a conversation with a stranger. (Believe it or not, I’m not being sarcastic.) Having said that, I should note, in what might seem a contradictory statement that reflects my brain already weakened by airport air (that full-bodied mixture of diesel fuel and filtered air freshener), our willingness to block ourselves off from the people sitting next to us, while carrying on a private conversation with someone on a cell phone, strikes me as part of the problem. We don’t say hello, where are you headed, but I  know that the guy next to me has a business deal that just collapsed and the woman across the way has bad taste in men. Email, texting, the total collapse of boundaries, and cell phone use has distracted eveyone to the extent that no one really wants to talk to me but they don’t seem to mind if I listen to them.

Except that person over there who keeps looking over with the hint of a friendly smile. He worries me. He’s either a terrorist or his cell phone died. Maybe if I put my headphones on, he’ll take the hint.

Living in a Vacuum (for one day)

I love to travel but I hate to fly. I have no illusions about safety; we all know that planes are safer than driving. The crashes are much more spectacular, of course, but much less likely to occur. The reality is that I hate airports and I find planes themselves stifling.

Obviously, this attitude says more about me than the airline industry. Planes have done everything they can to increase customer comfort. Airports have become giant malls–I’m waiting for DFW to install a roller coaster like they have at the Mall of America. At some point, I can imagine the airport becoming a destination location. After all, the food is already there, you can shop to your hearts content in the larger airports in America. Add a swimming pool and a few lovable characters and the kids will love the place.

But airports have also become a study in contradiction. All those people to watch, traveling here and yon, stressed out, self-conscious because they are being watched, road weary and travel worn, and, quite honestly, completely boring.

Like so many things in American culture, we have worked so hard to create comfort and safety that we have created comfort and safety. And sameness. Homogeneity. Traveling zombies (if we continue our thread from yesterday) maneuvering through the canned air pumped in and filtered.

And as travelers we aren’t that much fun to watch any more. “What’s that guy’s story?” He’s tired from traveling all day, we might say (and if we get close enough we can probably overhear his cell phone conversation and know his story). “What’s her story?” She’s tired from traveling all day, we might say.

I don’t, by the way, think this is a failure of my imagination (although you might disagree). I think that in our ability to make travel accessible (a good thing) we’ve also made travel simply a part of every day life. I’m headed to Canada today. Twenty years ago, this would be an exciting event. Canada! A foreign land! thousands of miles away!

But I’m no more excited than if I were headed to the grocery store. I leave the house at 9:00, get there at 5:00. It’s a long day, but travel has become so easy that it’s just another day. The only real difference is that I’ll be breathing canned air with thousands of total strangers.